Thin Ice (16 page)

"I'm sorry. I ... seem to be having trouble standing.” Her body wouldn't stop tingling.

wouldn't stop tingling.

His smile was tenderness defined. “Then I guess I'l have to carry you to bed."

Emily was dead weight in his arms by the time he reached her bedroom. Gently he lowered her to the bed, amazed at how quickly she'd crashed after the most erotic sexual encounter he'd experienced. He stil got mush-kneed thinking about it; the way her long auburn hair had flown wild around her flushed face as she tossed her head back and cried out her release. Caught in the grips of his fascination, he'd forgotten about his own need as he'd watched her control shatter right before his eyes.

Afterward, he'd held her. He'd cradled her close to his chest, closed his eyes and absorbed the rippling aftershocks of her release. He'd felt happier than he'd ever felt after making love to a woman, just knowing he'd brought her pleasure and she had let him.

He looked down at her now, and decided Emily Jordan had to be every man's ideal of a fantasy lover.

Unfortunately, she was also asleep. He chuckled at the irony of it and puled a neatly folded cream-colored afghan from the foot of the bed. He draped it over her, then smoothed her hair back and kissed her damp forehead. “G'night, love."

Wide awake himself, Eric straightened and looked around her room, iluminated only by the dim shaft of light from the hal. His first reaction was a long, approving smile. The room was peaches and cream, softness and light, efficiently organized ... and undeniably cream, softness and light, efficiently organized ... and undeniably feminine.

Just like Emily.

A note taped to the outdated VCR above the equaly outdated television directly across from the bed caught his eye and he ambled over to check it out. He loved reading Emily's notes. She had some cute ones tacked onto the board by the downstairs phone.

In Emily's surprisingly neat printing—considering she was a doctor

—was a list of the times and dates of the Saints’ last ten televised games. Next to the television stood a stack of VCR tapes, some labeled, some not. Those that were, were labeled “Eric's games".

Not Saints games, but “Eric's” games.

He looked back at Emily, and his heart sweled with a jumble of emotions he couldn't begin to sort out. Pride, pleasure, tenderness

... and disappointment at having wasted so much time.

Oh, Emily. Why have you been fighting me so hard?

He wandered over to the window to look out at the night. Instead, he saw a film of ice. Tree branches snapped and crackled as they broke under the weight of the building ice.

Beside him stood a dainty oak desk, its rol top open, the surface littered with papers. He picked up a brass paperweight shaped like a medical bag and noticed several bank statements beneath it. To the side lay an open business size checkbook, a stack of canceled the side lay an open business size checkbook, a stack of canceled checks, and a blank tax form. Knowing he shouldn't pry, but suddenly curious beyond scruples about anything that had to do with Emily, he flipped through the bank checks.

Al were made out to people with the last name Jordan. There was a Mark, Mary Beth, Patrick and Tom. They covered the twelve months of the previous year and were arranged by month. Tom's went only through May.

Each check was written for several hundred dolars. Al were dated the first of the month—and signed by Anna Louise Hamilton.

Baffled, Eric looked in the upper left hand corner. The imprint read The Jordan Foundation and gave its address as a post office box in St. Paul.

He did some math and realized this Jordan Foundation had sheled out almost forty thousand dolars last year. For what?

What the hel? Was Emily supporting an entire family of Jordans somewhere?

He turned a few of the checks over. From what he could tel, they were drawn on four different banks, two in Michigan, one in Pennsylvania and the other he couldn't make out in the dim light.

Emily coughed. Eric started and glanced over his shoulder. She'd be furious if she caught him nosing through her stuff. He replaced the checks and the paperweight, then put a healthy distance between checks and the paperweight, then put a healthy distance between himself and Emily Jordan's financial affairs. She was stil asleep when he went downstairs to turn off the lights.

On the way he peeked into Robbie's room, curious as to how an eight-year-old boy's room should look. A room of his own was a luxury Eric hadn't been able enjoy until he'd left home. He nodded in approval. Except for the single bed and Batman sheets, it looked pretty much like his apartment—as if a tornado had swept through it that afternoon.

Downstairs he turned on the news to catch the sports and weather and helped himself to some cold coffee and a few ginger snaps from the cow cookie jar. He knew he should get going, but he hated the thought of leaving Emily, and hated even more the thought that she might wake up and come looking for him, only to find him gone. If there was any chance she wanted to continue what they'd started in the kitchen, he didn't want to miss it.

At eleven-thirty he turned off the TV and went to get his parka. If he didn't leave now, the roads might be impassable, even in his Explorer. Because of the storm, he'd left the Boxter behind in Bil and Miranda's second garage. Good thing. A twenty-two-car pileup had stopped traffic in both directions on the city's main thoroughfare. The streets would be crawling with people taking alternate routes.

At the front door, he found he couldn't leave. Not until he checked on Emily one more time.

He hunkered down beside her bed and studied her face. She looked so soft and vulnerable in sleep, a different woman from the no-nonsense doctor he'd met in the ER five weeks ago. He had a hard time believing it was the same woman. Or that she was the same woman who'd gone up in flames in his arms tonight. Absently, he rubbed the dark spot on his jeans, high on his right thigh. Her scent wafted up to him, bringing his lower half to life.

"Down, boy,” he murmured. “Can't you see the lady's not in the mood?"

Her eyes drifted open. “Eric?"

He stood. “I'm right here. Everything's fine."

She blinked at the parka in his hand. “You're not leaving, are you?"

He smiled. “I thought I might, since I've managed to put you to sleep."

She chuckled and roled over. Her amusement faded as she gazed up at him with dark, steady eyes.

Eric's mouth went dry. It was al he could do not to dive into the bed beside her. He'd never met a sexier woman than Emily Jordan, covered from neck to ankle by an old sweat suit and an afghan that looked as if it had been made especialy for her by someone who loved her very, very much.

Almost as much as he did.

He blinked. No. It's not possible. It can't be.

But it was. He could feel it in every thudding heartbeat. He was in love with Emily Jordan.

He stepped backward, suddenly feeling more vulnerable and unsure of himself than he had since he'd left home for the juniors at sixteen.

“I'l see you in a few days,” he said abruptly, then realized how rough his voice sounded. He tried again. “I'l cal you when I get to Montreal."

She looked so sexy. Too sexy to leave alone tonight. Any night. But he had to. She was al wrong for him. He was al wrong for her. Sex and companionship was fine, but love and marriage?

Marriage? Where the hel had that come from?

He backed away. He needed to bolt before he did something stupid. Like propose. It wouldn't be the first time he'd blurted out a proposal in the heat of the moment. But the last time he'd been nineteen and desperate for someone to cal his own. His mother had just died and he hadn't known whether he was coming or going.

But Monica had. She'd known exactly what she was doing.

Emily rose onto her elbows and squinted at him as if he'd broken out in hives. “Eric? Are you al right?"

out in hives. “Eric? Are you al right?"

"I'm fine.” His voice was no more than an embarrassing croak.

"Are you sure?"

"Positive. It's just late, and—"

"Have you changed your mind about wanting to spend more time with me in the last...” she glanced at the clock on her nightstand,

“Good grief, have I been sleeping for two hours?"

He ignored that, choosing to answer her first question instead.

“No,” he breathed, hardly daring to hope. “I haven't changed my mind."

She smiled. “Then do you have any preference as to which side of the bed you like to sleep on?"

Eric's stomach did a free-fal. The silence between them was so acute he could hear the branches breaking in the ice storm outside from clear across the room. He closed his eyes and took a deep, calming breath. “Emily, if I join you in that bed, it won't matter which side either of us prefers to sleep on."

She smiled softly. “That's what I was hoping."

He dropped his parka, along with his common sense. Emily threw He dropped his parka, along with his common sense. Emily threw off the afghan and opened her arms. With a groan of pure pleasure he pressed her deep into the bed's softness. He settled himself between her legs and rocked against her, kissing her with the heat of a man who'd just had the holy hel scared out of him.

He wanted her, but was terrified of losing his heart to her. Once she had it, Eric knew he would never get it back.

Never.

So he kissed her, and kissed her, and kissed her again, and tried to blot out everything but the hot, carnal pleasure of her body as it strained against his. His marriage had taught him if the sex was strong, the heart needn't be involved.

He might have been able to pul it off, if Emily hadn't giggled. He registered the sound slowly, lifted his head and looked down at her with eyes that felt slightly unfocused.

"What's so funny?” He'd never had a woman laugh at him in bed before.

She chuckled softly. “I know I'm a little rusty, but shouldn't we be doing this with our clothes off?"

He smiled, charmed, and kissed her again. “Al in good time, Angel.

Right now I just want to—rusty? How rusty?"

She looked up at him, her eyes wide and solemn. “Very rusty."

She looked up at him, her eyes wide and solemn. “Very rusty."

He saw it then, the hesitance he'd missed before. The apprehension that lurked behind the banter. And he died a little inside, knowing he'd planned to take her in lust, with no concession to love. “How long has it been?"

"Since before Robbie."

Guilt engulfed him. He groaned and roled away from her.

"Eric?"

He reached for her hand and squeezed it. Give me a minute to change gear."

"Are you going to leave?"

He knew he should, if only to salve his conscience. “Do you want me to?"

"No."

Hope edged its way into his heart. Maybe they could find a way to make it work after al. He rose onto an elbow and met her eyes, to find them dark and deeply troubled. “Are you sure?"

"I want to try again.” Her smile was fragile, her voice equaly so.

“Maybe this time I can get it right. You have to admit I, uh, sort of botched things earlier—in the kitchen."

Her insecurity melted him. If he awoke in the morning to find his heart missing, so be it. He refused to protect himself at her expense.

He bent to her and kissed her far more gently than ever before.

“You're wrong,” he said, smiling. “What happened downstairs is was the best sexual experience I've ever had."

"But you didn't—"

He shushed her with his fingertips. I didn't have to. Watching you, knowing I was pleasing you, gave me more than enough satisfaction.” Doubt lingered in her eyes. He traced his fingers along the curve of her jaw. She felt like peach silk. “You were beautiful, Emily."

Emily had never felt so cherished. Eric slid one hand into her hair and caressed her stomach with the other. Her butterflies stiled as he smiled into her eyes and promised her everything would be al right.

He didn't use words. He didn't have to. His eyes, his smile, his touch said it al. His hands trailed against her flushed skin, soothing her nerves like summer rain. As her body filed with renewed desire, he feathered her face with short, playful kisses between long, deep, soul kisses. Instinct and emotion took over as she lifted her arms to his neck. He pressed closer, glided his hands upward to soothe the aching fulness in her breasts. He enticed her upright until they sat facing each other, she on her knees before him, her hands on his shoulders. Gently he caught the hem of her sweatshirt. “I want to see you."

see you."

Anxiety arrowed straight into her womb as their eyes locked. She couldn't help but wonder if he'd be disappointed by what he saw. It had been so long, and Ryan had been so quick to criticize.

She nodded, and he lifted her sweatshirt over her head.

"You're more beautiful than I imagined,” Eric whispered, his voice raw with restrained need.

She shuddered with an answering need. “Touch me, Eric. Please."

He did, and she nearly wept at the joy of it. She bit her lower lip to keep from moaning, and closed her eyes as his skiled hands skimmed her skin, his caluses offered sweet sensation. Her breathing soft and shalow, she leaned into his caresses, arched her neck, and let her hair fal to her hips.

"That's it sweetheart, don't hold back. Just let it go. There's nobody here but us and I love the sound of you aroused."

She exhaled on a ragged moan, then gasped as he replaced his hands with his mouth on her breasts. Blindly she reached for him as pleasure so intense it was almost painful shot through her.